A Rose Thorn
by Ramzes
Summary: My mother's mother was famously beautiful and a schemer. The most hated woman in England at one time," Arthur told Catherine of Aragon. The story of Queen Elizabeth Woodvile, narrated by the Queen herself.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Technically, I suppose I shouldn't be writing one, since The White Queen – which, if you don't know, is the book that Philippa Gregory is working on at the moment – hasn't been published yet. Anyway, since I took the idea from Arthur's words in The Constant Princess, I'll write it anyway: I don't own the idea and I don't own anything, least of all Queen Elizabeth Woodville.**

A Rose Thorn

_Bermondsey Abbey, 1492_

I didn't expect any visitors and frankly, I didn't especially long for any. Long gone were the days when every newcomer brought some changes, from minor news to clashes that shook the kingdom or even the whole Europe. Here, in Bermondsey Abbey, nothing ever happens and I think I prefer it this way now, when I can't influence anything or anyone. My royal son in-law and his cold-hearted mother Margaret Beaufort made sure of that.

But the visitor came.

"Madame," Sister Margaret said, softly, "your son, the Marquess of Dorset, has come to see you."

Tom? I immediately felt chilled. He wouldn't have come, if something very seriously hadn't happened – just like Elizabeth, he rarely visits me. All three of us prefer it this way. So, something happened. I especially thought of something bad.

"Invite him in." My voice was just as flat and cold as I wanted it. If I hadn't been able to hide my emotions, I wouldn't have lasted a single year as a Queen, let alone nineteen. If I hadn't managed to look opaque, I would have lost to Richard as soon as he started to make his ambitions clear after Edward's death.

She curtsied and left; a few minutes later, Tom came in and made a bow. "Your Grace," he said, more formally than he had ever behaved in the court, when Edward was alive and my might was in full vigour.

The nun who had accompanied him curtsied again and left. I had no doubt that she would put her ear on the door as soon as she closed it. She's Henry's spy, you see – as if I could do something worth spying! I am an aging, ailing woman, a queen stripped of her power and banished from the court, that's the truth. I am glad that Henry still fears me, though. I hope my suspected disloyalty deprives him – or even better, Margaret – from sleep.

When we were alone, Tom came close and took my hand to kiss it. I looked at him, waiting to hear what he had come to tell me. Meanwhile, I offered him wine and fruits from the platter on the table. He accepted the wine.

Again, I looked at him and I didn't like what I saw. Oh he was as handsome as ever – in fact, he was the spitting image of my brother Anthony, a resemblance that had once brought me joy, for I have always enjoyed the fact that my children were blessed with good looks, unlike most children of the English nobility, who are generally unattractive, pale, and physically weak, - but now only saddened me. No, it was something in his expression that reminded me of the times when our schemes failed within Edward's court – the same expression that he bore, when we realized that we were losing our positions, our honour and in all possibility, we would lose even our lives to Richard, damnation take him!

Yet, it couldn't be so awful, because he would have told me all at once. So I asked, "I trust everyone was well when you left London?"

He looked at me over his glass. "Yes, everyone is well," he said. "I am bringing you the love of your beloved daughter, the Queen. She was very concerned with the rumours of your illness." He looked at me inquisitively.

"I am well," I said curtly. You should know better than to expect of me to reveal a weakness, Tom.

He nodded and I could see that he did not believe me. "Her Grace will be pleased to hear it," he said.

It was strange to sit here with him, but it didn't feel awkward. When I come to think of it, out of all my children, Tom is the one who has always been closest to me. It's only natural, I suppose – he was born long before I became Queen and he's always been my ally at this awful, ungrateful court who now pretends that I never existed.

Well, that's not entirely true, of course – when I married Edward, Tom was still too young to be my ally, although I did everything I could to provide for him and his brother. The first step was a pre-contracted marriage a rich heiress. I must admit that I could never provide so well for my sons, if Edward hadn't been so agreeable. Oh he had his failures as husband, his whores being a source of never ending irritation for me, but he never failed in benefiting my family. I do not flatter myself with the thought that he did it out of love for me – he wanted to undermine the influence of the noble families, Warwick's mainly, by creating a new nobility that would be loyal to him alone. And the marriages of my siblings gave him the perfect way to do it. And still, I know that he truly liked my brother Anthony and he was quite fond of the boys, so I could provide for them. I know what they say of us, the Woodvilles – that we benefited unjustly, that we were greedy vipers, who tore England apart. Warwick and Richard started these rumours and God knows that my son in-law makes a good use of them. I can only laugh at this. We were greedy, yes. We were ambitious and scheming, yes. But benefiting unjustly? Oh please! My father served Edward loyally and well, as did my beloved brother Anthony, as a diplomat, as a warrior, as a governor to my son Edward, the Prince of Wales. Once he grew up, Tom accompanied Edward during his French campaign and carried out different missions for him. And what about me? Besides doing all the charities that a Queen is due to, I spent years and years in constant pregnancies. Month after month – ninety in common – I lost my figure, I could hardly move, I felt heavy and queasy and to top it all, I had to watch Edward lavish attention upon his mistresses – the man was unable to live through even one of my pregnancies, _even one_, without finding a new whore. I became reconciled with it and continued producing heirs for the Yorkist throne. We all _worked_, damn it!

"How is your wife?" I asked, shaking my memories off.

"She's well," Tom said.

"And the children?"

"You aren't going to turn into a doting grandmother, are you?" he asked and almost smiled. "It doesn't fit you."

I felt the sudden, long forgotten desire to test my wits. "You should know what fits me. We have the same blood running in our veins."

"And the same poison," he elaborated, but quite softly. Once, he wouldn't have been so discreet, but after Richard made his ridiculous proclamation that I have ensnared Edward into marrying me with witchcraft, we had to be careful about what we say. I really don't think that Henry will want to humiliate his wife's family publicly, but who knows? Life has taught me to always expect the unexpected.

"So, how is young Thomas?" I asked. Out of all my grandchildren, I have a special fondness for this one, maybe because of his resemblance to my late son, Richard Grey. I am quite surprised by that, because I could never be called a doting mother, but then, I was trying to bring up men, not some pale flowers that would break at the first blow of the wind.

Not that it _changed_ anything, of course. For all my strict instructions in toughness and perfidy, three of my sons are dead and the fourth one, the one who survived, was worried, although he still hadn't told me the reason.

"Thomas is well. He's getting accustomed to the court." Tom suddenly smiled. "He's fascinated by the tales for Edward. I think he idolizes him. I don't know where this idea came to him – "

"It came from you," I interrupted him. "You have always been always fascinated with Edward." And God knows that my late husband had the gift to bind boys' loyalties to him. I don't mean my sons by my first marriage alone. Even Richard, that goddamned usurper, was always loyal to him. He was a good brother to him. Yes, I truly believe that he was. We would have known, if he had pretended – and we would have taken care of him. But he was a good brother and that enabled him to land the crushing blow on us.

Tom didn't answer immediately. When he finally looked at me, his face was serious again. "There is another rebellion," he said suddenly. "Led by another pretender, who claims to be Richard, Duke of York."

My heart leapt with sudden hope. Was it possible - ? No, of course not. Richard wouldn't have been so negligent as to let one of my sons to leave England alive._ I_ certainly wouldn't have been so negligent in Richard's place and no matter what I think of the man, he proved himself to be a worthy rival.

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**A. N. I think of writing another, final chapter to this story. Do you think it's worth the effort?**

eHis

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	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Look at the previous chapter._

**Thanks to the three people who left reviews for this story: AustinUzumaki, Lady Eleanor Boleyn, and Signora Aligheri.**

Chapter 2

Once feeling sure that the pretender, whoever he was, was not my son, I started thinking logically again. „How bad is it?" I asked.

"I'm not quite sure. It's early to say. But given the damage that Lambert Simnel did, I'd say we should better watch it."

Just the answer I feared.

"How bad?" I asked again, my voice rising slightly. Oh God, do not allow yet another civil war just when things became to get better, do not allow it.

"Margaret of Burgundy supports his claim," Tom said levelly.

"I am not surprised," I answered equally levelly. Indeed, I am not. That bitch Margaret has always been a troublemaker. She has hated me from the very beginning and now she hates everything that has something to do with Tudor. Well, I could sympathize with that, since I am not too fond of my son in-law either, but you do not see me _starting a war_ because of that, do you? But she seems to have forgotten that she's been an English princess once – all she cares to be is Duchess of Burgundy. And why, would I ask? For a husband who was really brave – his nickname _was_ Charles the Bold, after all, - I'll give him that, but had no other qualities? Whatever I can say for Edward – and I can say a lot of things, mind you, it's just that I choose not to, - he was much more interesting and he was never stupid. I could never tolerate stupidity. But Margaret? She wasn't that bad once, I think, but even as early as the last time I saw her, I could say that she was embittered. I suppose I should be sympathetic, but as I said, I could never tolerate stupidity and beneath all her brains and glamour, and political talents, Margaret could be surprisingly stupid. I mean, really! I am very well aware that Margaret was infatuated with my brother Anthony, but did she do something about that? No, she acted the virtuous lady and princess who should go to her husband as pure, albeit quite longing maiden. I have no doubt that she never found a lover in the Burgundian court, too – she was way too dignified, it was so _beneath_ her. And that left her with that good for nothing but trouble husband. No wonder she went insane, if only a little. Really, if I had any real trouble in my marriage to Edward – besides the frequent threats of changing position from Queen to unlawful Queen of unlawful King, which happened once, I mean, - it was his family. Let's take his mother, my beloved mother in-law, Cecily Neville. She's still alive at the age of seventy and more, isn't it wretched? Given all tragedies in her life, one would think that she should have died years ago, but she doesn't have enough humanity to die. She lives on pride and haughtiness, I think.

But enough about my in-laws. No matter what they do – and how much trouble they will give to us personally and to England during the process, - Henry Tudor is good enough to best them. He will stay king and my blood will long live on the English throne. Ha! Take that, Cecily! You will have Woodville grandchildren on the throne that you so coveted for yourself, despite your arrogance.

"And how does His Grace accept this news?" I asked.

Tom gave me a meaningful look. "How do you think?"

I could have saved the question, really. The answer is clear: Henry had not been pleased and he had made his view on the subject clear enough. Only ten years ago, who would have thought that one day I'd support a Lancastrian pretender over and Yorkist one and pray for Tudor's victory? Not me, I can tell you.

"They say that the boy resembles Edward very much," Tom said, and I huffed. That's no evidence at all and he knew it as well as I do. So what if the boy really resembles Edward? What kind of a proof is that? He might even be Edward's son. Just not mine. I swear that if Edward had kept count, he could have had an army of fifty boys the same age, all of them his sons.

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. But not by much!

"And how does that affect Elizabeth?" I asked, suddenly worried: my daughter is heavily pregnant and the last thing she needs is a quarrel with her husband.

"She's fine," Tom assured me. "His Grace is becoming more and more benevolent towards her as her pregnancy progresses."

I was not surprised: on the rare occasions when I saw Elizabeth, she seemed perfectly content with her husband. She certainly cares for him and as much as I can say, he cares about her too. I feel that she could have much more influence in court than she actually does. She just doesn't want it, as strange as that seems to me. She doesn't seem to care that much about power and prestige. Well, I didn't care about that when I was her age either but at least I was in love with John Grey. Elizabeth does not have even this excuse. I'll never forgive her, I swear. It's just unscrupulous of her, it equals treachery. Just thinking for the position of the first lady in the royal court – a position that has been mine for nineteen years and is now held by Margaret Beaufort – is enough to make my blood boil. How can I not think that Elizabeth betrayed all of us?

"How on earth you and Edward managed to create such a nice child is beyond me," Tom said. I had forgotten how perceptive he could be sometimes, how he could read my thoughts when I left my face unguarded.

"You've always been fond of her," I said instead of answering. "Too forgiving."

He shrugged. "Fond, yes. Forgiving, not. Her Grace never did anything that needs forgiving."

"Unlike you," I could not help but say. "And your father."

He looked at me with mild interest. I could understand – I rarely talk about his father, even to him, even to Anthony, who had known almost everything about me.

"My father? What did he do?"

"He died," I replied.

"And you never forgave him for that."

"He doesn't deserve forgiveness. He could have stayed home, where he belonged, but what did he do? What happened to him? The war! He had to play the warrior, to take what war could give him, to flirt with his death as easily as he flirted with me. Unfortunately, he could not charm death so easily."

Tom almost smiled. "Nor could he you, I'm sure. You're not an easy one to charm."

I also smiled, not objecting to his words. Of course he would think that. He knows me only as a young widow trying to survive along with her two children, then as a gracious Queen who faithfully fulfilled her duties and turned blind eye to her husband's infidelities, apparently not moved by anything. He doesn't even suspect the way I was before – a young bride, married to a stranger, but a handsome one! You could not bring two young, inexperienced and relatively attractive people together and not expect that something would happen. In those days I had no idea what future held in store for me – how could I? I honestly thought that I'd spend my whole life with John Grey, so I decided to make a real effort to be a good wife. At that time, I thought that our marriage worked mostly because of my efforts – I was young and vain enough for that. Now I know better and I can see that John's part was equally important. He wanted to have good life with me, too, and he was willing to do what was necessary. So, we entered the marriage cautiously, careful not to insult the other one or make him feel bad. And after six months together, we realized that the arranged marriage had turned into something so much more. Not that we didn't have our problems, of course – we did. We had our fair share of quarrels which were not nice at all, I assure you. But the reunions that followed them were quite a different matter.

Oh how I remember one of them – not the most furious one, but for some reason, it's the one that nowadays keep coming back to my mind. At that time, after Richard's birth, John had found out that I was trying to prevent another pregnancy by drinking herbs provided by my maid. I still remember his screams, how he proclaimed it was against Christian principles and that he wanted of me to give birth to a new baby every year.

"And who is going to pay for them?" I yelled back. "What are we going to give them, when they all grow up?"

That made him shut up. Of course. He isn't the one who had grown up with numerous brothers and sisters and not enough prospects for all of them. I smiled triumphantly.

He scowled. Then smiled. Then started laughing. And finally, I heard his consent, spoken with the charm that made me forgive him anything. "As you wish, my dear. Just don't tell me the details of what you are doing. This way, it'll be easier for me to lie during confession."

What a bastard he was, but how we laughed together! And then he went and got himself killed, leaving me alone with two little boys and that arrogant, greedy mother of his. How can I forgive him for such betrayal? And people yet call me greedy for daring marry the King of England. I'd like to invite everyone to lead the life I led in the years after John's death and _then_ they can talk! Between being a penniless widow and being a Queen of England, a Queen to a King who, to top everything else, was as attractive as they come, what would you choose? I made my choice, even if I didn't know back then that the King would shame me with practically every woman he met. But even if I had known, I would have still married him – for wealth, power and yes, lust. I made my choice and even after everything that happened, I would have made the same choice again.

"Mother! Are you well?"

I blinked and smiled at the sight of Tom's worried face. When he saw that I was myself again, he hurriedly erased any sign of emotion, bit it was too late, I had already seen it. It warmed me in a way very few things had done the last dew years. He still cares about me, although he doesn't come often to see me. It's better this way – I remind him of a past that he'd rather forget, and he reminds me of the same thing. We've been together through so many things and we haven't been together for even more. When he returned from his exile to Brittany, we were both different people. It's strange how much two years can change a person. But they were not just any two years – they were Richard's years, the most miserable time in my life and I suspect, in Tom's life too. Although I never asked him. I don't want to know. It's his affair and his alone.

"And I?" he asked curiously. "What did I do that you cannot forgive me?"

"You didn't quite do it," I said. He looked confused. "The letter," I helped him. "The letter that I sent you in Brittany. Why did you act on the instructions in it?"

I had been so calm, when Richard forced me to write that letter that summoned Tom back to England, so sure that he's understand my bluff and won't take the forced instruction seriously. Instead, he did and he even tried to follow my orders. That's one of the occasions – a very few occasions, you can trust me, - when I was grateful for Tudor: he found Tom in time and forced him to stay where he was. Had Tom managed to come back, he would have become another pawn in Richard's hands, so the usurper could more securely enforce me to do his bidding – as if having my daughters in his hands weren't enough!

"I wasn't thinking straight," he said. "I was worried."

Well, I can understand that he was concerned about us, but that is no excuse for stupidity. He stood up, ready to leave – obviously the conversation has become too intimate for his liking. We were quickly falling in our old closeness and we weren't sure we wanted that – the world had changed too much. But then, he turned towards me and his face shone brightly against the sunrays of the setting sun. I could see the first signs of aging – barely visible lines in his face, a few white hairs here and there. And that was the moment I fully realized how strong my love for my son is. I wanted to go to him and hug him. I wanted to spend the evening with him, talking about the past, about Edward, about the politics we had led and the intrigues we had made. About the people we had known and loved.

But that isn't the way we behaved with each other. As I said, I've never been a doting mother and it's a little late to start now, even if I wanted to. Which I don't.

All the same, I didn't want him to leave.

"Will you dine with me?" I asked before he could take his farewell.

He hesitated. "I'd be honoured," he said, then hesitated again and finally decided to go on. "I expect it will be out last meeting for a while. I think the King suspects me of being supportive of the rebellion."

I stared at him. I could not believe my ears. Could Henry Tudor – who I always believed so smart – to be this stupid? I felt a surge of panic that immediately grew into an angry outburst. "The King is an idiot! What the hell is he thinking? What would you gain by helping a pretender who wants to dethrone your own sister?"

Tom frantically waved at me to shut up. I did so – we could gain nothing by insulting the King when we were almost certainly being spied on.

"And what happens now?" I asked after a moment pause.

He shrugged. "I suppose he'll have me imprisoned," he answered lightly, but I could not share his carelessness which was only a pretense anyway. I just felt my face paling. "Where?" I asked in whisper. "Where is he going to imprison you?"

"I have no idea."

"But not the Tower, right? He isn't going to keep you in the Tower?" Rationally, I knew that there is nothing to fear. Tom is not of royal blood, so once Tudor calmed down, he would set him free, but even now, days later, I cannot chase this horrible thought. _Not the Tower. Not the Tower._

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**A.N. Well, I couldn't keep my promise and keep it in two chapters, but now I really intend for the next one to be the final. But then, I really intended that for this one, too.**

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